


Seasons

by Kami_del_Antro



Series: The knight and the scholar [1]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Carene, Commandach, Don't @ Me, F/M, Guild Wars 2 - Freeform, Tyria's Library, Tyria's Library montly prompt, smut on the last chapter, which is the longest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 06:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: Winter, spring, summer, fall, winter again. As the world changes around them, so do Irene and Canach.[This was written for Tyria's Library september's montly prompt]





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> It's 6.30 am don't @ me I love them okay? I love them.

It occurred to Canach that he had never seen snow before - at least, not sober. He had seen snowy mountains, from far away, and he had felt the chill that the winter wind carried from the Shiverpeaks. He had seen it insinuating atop the warm plains of Ascalon, where it always seemed to be the middle of fall, even if his memories were of gunpowder and Renegade growls. He had seen it, a flash of white, before piercing his own arm with that blessed needle that kept him alive while on the run, that kept him strong when the strength of his convictions wasn’t enough to keep starvation and fatigue at bay.

And even if he hadn’t seen it from up close, he had the memories of those who came before. Not many had came before Canach, but some of those who did had traveled far and wide. Riannoc, probably, or even Caithe; it was cold, and powdery, and one couldn’t hold on to it for too long.

But still, nothing could prepare him for it. For when the soft, weightless flakes started pouring, slowly, featherly, dancing in the chilling air before falling to the dirty ground, and melting away. Fleeting, like innocence.

He held out his hand abstent-mindely, waiting. And soon enough a single snowflake dropped right in the middle of his palm. A butterfly would’ve been more heavy, probably. But just as fleeting, as it turned into a pool of water right before his eyes.

With bored curiosity, Canach held up his eyes, watching the snowfall unfold. Tiny white dancers dropped, getting caught in the bars of his cage, or inside on the cold, metal floor, with him. And melted away, disappearing.

Laranthir’s quick steps distracted him from his silent contemplation, and he was fast to mask his curiosity with dry wit and sarcasm.

“What is it this time?” he bitterly greeted. “More stories of old? More books for a bored troublemaker to read? More attempts at a conversation?”

His smirk vanished from his face as soon as he lowered his eyes to meet his brother’s, frozen in an angry grimace. For he wasn’t alone; a silent presence walked behind him, her Priory uniform so out of place in the Vigil’s Headquarters. Canach’s eyes narrowed, as he couldn’t help but glare at the silent, tiny sylvari, who so daringly approached him now.

He spent sleepless nights in Fort Marriner pondering about that soft, round, red face. He would have recognized her anywhere.

“You,” he sneered. Laranthir stopped, glancing nervously at his guest.

“Commander, are you sure-…?”

“It’s fine, Warmaster Laranthir,” Irene cut him, gifting him a reassuring smile. “I can handle it myself.”

Laranthir seemed unsure, shooting a warning glance towards Canach’s burning glare. But he nodded nonetheless.

“Very well, Commander,” he conceded, briefly saluting with a hand to his chest. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Irene nodded, and sharply inhaled to add. “And please, call me Magister. I’m not in duty with the Pact right now; I’m merely a Priory scholar.”

As polite as ever, Laranthir nodded once again before turning on his heels towards the Headquarters’ door.

“I shall make a note of that, Magister,” he said, making his way inside. “Please, don’t hesitate to call if the situation requires it.”

Once again Irene nodded, pondering at the bars of Canach’s cage, ignoring his eyes fixed on her tiny frame. She walked around the cage in one direction, then the other one, inspecting its sturdiness and its placement in the keep, surveying the large expanse of land towards Lion’s Arch.

“Are you seeing the sights, _ Commander _?” Canach inquired, crossing his arms. Irene shot him a tired glance, before resuming her supervision. “Or are you examining your latest trophy on its display?”

Again, Irene ignored him, circling the tiny enclosure one more time, before stopping at its side. From the keep’s walls, the mountains that kept Lion’s Arch hidden were barely visible in the distance. A dark, dense cloud raised to the skies from the city.

“I’m merely trying to find an explanation about why are you not there, chasing glory,” Canach sneered once again, holding onto the bars of his cage, inclined towards the younger sylvari. “Shouldn’t _ the Commander _ be there?”

“Enough,” Irene muttered, distracted. Worried. 

Canach glanced towards the toxic cloud. Towards the wreckage that used to be a once proud city. It had been days now; days of darkness, of pain, of refugees. He could hear them, sometimes. He could hear their cries.

“Quite the mess you’re making, aren’t you, Ceara?” he said under his breath. Irene glanced at him from over her shoulder, biting her lip, trying to resist the urge to know. It was a futile task.

“Ceara?” she asked. Canach huffed with a smirk. Priory scholars were all the same.

“Scarlet wasn’t always the flashy monster of the week,” he said through clenched teeth. “She was always, however, a bit of a sociopath.”

“Was her?” Irene pressed, stepping a bit closer. Canach arched a thorny brow.

“How long have you been awaken? A year?” Irene sunk a bit. Canach smirked again, victorious. “You seem to have a very narrow understanding of the nature of evil.”

Something changed. A cloud in front of the sun. Irene’s eyes grew somber; a shadow grew inside.

“I happen to know evil quite well,” she stated. Then turned away towards the distance, and the shadow passed. Canach leaned forward, intrigued.

“Do you?” he teased. “Yet, I’m the one behind bars.”

Irene glanced at him once more, narrowing her eyes. Measuring him, wondering if it was worth it to even argue.

Suddenly, however, Canach leaned back.

“In any case,” he said, dismissively. “Why did you come here?”

Irene opened her eyes wide for a second, returning to her pacing around his cage.

“Just wanted to help out,” she murmured, trying to focus. Canach cocked his head to the side.

“To do what? Keep me entertained?” he questioned. Irene shot him a death glare.

“To keep you in your cage, more like it,” she clarified. Canach blinked.

“You?” he teased again. Irene went around the cage one last time, stopping beside him.

“Yes,” she stated. “Me.”

Canach leaned in closer once again, holding on to the bars of his cage. Irene seemed undeterred.

“And aren’t you scared, _ Commander _?” he said softly. “What if I would want to violently come out, get my revenge?”

She held her ground, still standing in front of him.

“You won’t,” she murmured. Canach arched a brow once again. “You wouldn’t risk the ire of the Vigil. You’re smarter than that.”

Her skinny arm tenderly, absent-mindely touched one of the bars, as if holding on to her reasoning. Like a snowflake, weightless, soft. Within his reach; awaiting for him to prove her wrong.

And prove her wrong he did. Canach seized the chance, and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. Irene, startled, yelped softly upon feeling her body against the cage, suddenly facing the Secondborn.

“I might have been insincere,” he hissed. “I happen to know exactly why you aren’t there, or more specifically, why you weren’t called.”

She froze, but glared all the same. So defiant, despite her disadvantages. So much fire hidden in such a delicate exterior. It made him sick, such hypocrisy. He knew well about the raw power within. He felt it on his own skin.

“What do you _ think _ you know?” she interrogated, pulling on her arm. Canach kept his grip, somber, but smirking.

“Rumors fly, and they somehow always reach me,” he confessed, examining her face up close. The petals of her hair, the soft, flower-like marking of her face. The echoes of a thorn whip scar on her neck. “I know what you are.”

Her face hardened, but she recoiled. Her eyes were suddenly bright, and her breathing hinged. _ Fear. _

“You never quite answered to me,” Canach murmured. “How much did Faolain offered you to recruit me, _ Commander _?”

The disgust and anger lit Irene up, but Canach saw something else. Something that disturbed him, on the depths of those eyes that had known righteous anger, and fear of death. An endless sorrow, nights spent in grief. Sadness, in all of its glory-less power.

They stood in place, salt statues at the edge of a condemned world, as cold as the snow that piled up around them. But Irene’s fire reignited, as her hand curled into a fist.

“You should know better by now,” she murmured. Canach narrowed his eyes.

“Pardon me?”

“You should know better.”

Irene’s voice sounded strange, mechanic, echoey in the open space. Too late Canach understood his mistake, as Irene’s image shattered in pieces like a mirror, and exploded in a swarm of butterflies. Canach felt his back against the cage, ratling and almost turning it on its side, as he slid down to the ground. The noise attracted attention, and suddenly a silent alarm was sound and Laranthir came running out of the keep.

“What’s going on?” he asked, quickly looking around to find Irene, unscathed, holding on to her arm. “Magister, is everything alright?”

“It is, now,” she assured him, as Canach stood up and groaned in pain.

Laranthir gave him a saddened glance, but kept his composure in front of Irene. She, however, seemed furious.

“You don’t have to worry about him,” she said, glaring at the captive sylvari. “He’s too obtuse to see beyond his own stubbornness.”

“I, however, regret to inform you, _ Commander _, that you have utterly wasted your time,” Canach pointed out, also furious. “For I have no plans to escape or cause further chaos, as much tempting as it can be.”

“It’s a good thing I was called, then,” Irene stated, walking towards Canach despite Laranthir’s attempts to stop her. “To make sure it doesn’t happen even if you change your mind.”

“You wouldn’t be able to hold me even if you tried,” he sneered, spitting the words with white hot anger. “Faolain’s scum.”

Indignant, Irene turned around, ignoring Laranthir’s “Hey!” upon Canach’s mentioning of Faolain. However, before going away, she turned to talk to Laranthir once more.

“Put a mesmer on duty to guard him if you want to be sure,” she said, throwing one last glance towards Canach. “He’s easily fooled by illusions.”

Then she left without another word, as Canach fumed on his cage, chewing on bitter words and thinking bitter thoughts as shadows grew in the distance.


	2. Spring

Irene didn't like Canach.

He was crass, and bitter, and spiteful. He had called her terrible things, without even bothering to know why they were terrible. "Miss Nightmare" was a nickname she remembered with singular disgust.

And yet, he was pushy, and needy, and was always behind her, like a desperate fern hound yearning for affection. Even after biting the hand that delivers food and pets. Once he realized no one would talk to him after his offenses towards her, Canach latched onto her like an annoying mushroom growing on an oak. One who talks, and has opinions. More often than not, contenrious ones.

He was also inconsistent.

For once, that one time, when they found soldiers of the Pact rounding up sylvari soldiers to execute them, she had jumped to their aid with little thought, and was rightfully surprised when Canach jumped on as well, always behind her.

"We are not monsters! We are not the enemy!" she exclaimed. And she could feel Canach's eyes on her, as they unsheathed their swords and prepared to fight their own allies if it meant saving their people.

Irene never had thought that Canach was fair, or honorable.

"Insulting a whole race for the actions of a few seems unfair," he had said once in the Verdant Brink, one night as they watched the campfires. "Such ignorance shouldn't go unpunished."

They talked like that, sometimes, when duty put them together. Canach was well spoken, and surprisingly polite. He also seemed to be extra careful with her now, after their run-ins with the Pact. As if they shared a secret mischief. And Irene wasn't sure if she liked it.

She remembered him crass, and murderous. She remembered him as he was, as she had met him. But it was hard to do so when the weight of her mistakes caught up to her, and he was the one following her, always following, and offered her his shield for comfort. In the middle of the Auric Basin, feeling alone and lost in the darkness, Canach had been her life raft, lending a hand.

Before, Irene had loved, she had loved a few times. She had done so, while also being deadly afraid. She had loved a brave knight, lost forever in the shadows. She had loved a kind stranger, in need of a home. Of a helping hand, an ear who listens. And she had loved an elder scholar, but decided not to for his loss would not only destroy her, but also all of her people. She was used to yearn for the light, for peace, for tenderness. Everything that the renegade sylvari wasn’t.

But Canach wasn't comfortable in Rata Novus, and clumsily, chaotically explained why asura voices were grating on his ears, painful on his memory. He showed her his scars, one night of patrol and silence, in that dead city where Mordremoth couldn't reach them.

Evil had touched them several times. Irene tried to do her best. To be kind, to never add to such wicked chain again. Canach wanted to burn it all.

And so, Irene didn't like him. She didn't like his snark, and his impulsiveness. She didn't like his disposition for chaos. She didn't like the sheer attentiveness in his eyes when she talked, and he listened. She didn't like his passion, his disposition to act, his disgust upon seeing injustice. His desire for freedom.

She didn't like him. Not even after Trahearne's death, when he held her as she wanted nothing more than to break down, to grieve so much that she would disappear, or die as well. Not even when he never stopped holding her in his arms, as the choppers arrived and took them to Rata Sum. Not even when they said goodbye, and she wasn't sure to call him a friend yet but upon looking into his eyes, she realized he was going to kiss her.

For a fleeting second, she liked the possibility, yearned for it, even. But the kiss never came, just his arms around her, holding her close. And his smell of freshly cut grass, as she held on as well.

Now she was left to ponder alone, to grief in peace. But as the pain subdued, a new yearning began to bloom.

She didn't like him.

All that was left was convincing herself of that.


	3. Summer

When Canach saw her, he felt the wind forcibly taken away from him, but he maintained his composure with prideful indifference. He didn’t like to yearn, but he liked being seen as a needy, lovesick sapling even less. So he conversed with Commanders Sinéad and Kyrie, he outlined his mission, and refused to acknowledge the nervous figure standing behind them, a little isolated, a little jittery, rubbing her fingers.

He, however, remembered that exact moment he knew he was lost. After all, he was back once again in the agonizing heat and humidity of the Heart of Maguuma, right up north from the Verdant Brink. There was no better place to relive the past.

Not to mention, Giralein was also there. Just like old times, holding his wife’s hand, attempting to ignore him as much as he could. Canach couldn’t help but smirk. If he hated him already, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how much he would hate him  _ if only he knew _ .

After the debriefing, and a short debate with himself, Canach walked right up towards Irene, who froze upon seeing him approach. Such fragility, hiding such fearsome strength. And a pair of reading glasses Canach didn’t recall seeing before, as if her studying on the Priory was suddenly interrupted with news of a mission. And as their eyes met, the yearning grew stronger.

_ Ah, yes _ , the moment he knew it was too late to come back. As he felt Giralein’s eyes on his back, and an incredulous muttering of “Where does he think he’s going?” the guardian didn’t even tried to dissimulate, he remembered with almost painful clarity. His breathing ravaged, his sap, pumping, beads of sweat, like dew, on his upper lip and sliding down his temples. And the pain in his wrist, as fresh as the hole in the middle of his chest when everything was done.

The cacophony wasn’t a bloodstone storm, that one time, but the roaring of a triumphant dragon, even if he only recognized it later on. In the middle of the night, back in the Auric Basin, the golden spires were weaker, and Mordremoth plagued his mind with doubt, and yearning. Like a worm eating a log, burying into his sanity.

He couldn't remember who started, but he did remember how the words ended and the proper fight began. Giralein, knight in shining armor sapling, said the only thing that could make it lose his temper, perhaps aided by a dragon all too satisfied about the prospect of snaring them both on its claws.

_ “You should’ve died instead of Riannoc!” _ Giralein roared. And Canach saw red.

His sword called for blood, just as Giralein’s claimed for his head. And even if he’d rather say it had been a draw, Canach pretty transparently lost. A snapped wrist and a bleeding lip later, he found himself disarmed, at the mercy of an enemy he couldn’t recognize. The dragon roared, and Canach felt the icy claws of death wrapping him like a long awaited prey.

Or perhaps it was a time wave that let him frozen in place. That, and a blizzard that froze Giralein’s legs to the ground.

Gialinn took her husband away, calling him from the dragon’s grasp. Irene wasn’t as gentle with him.

_ “I thought…!” _ she yelled, suddenly pushing him.  _ “You, of all people…! I thought you’d understand.” _

She seemed so disappointed in him. She seemed heartbroken, even.

_ “I thought you…” _ a pause to sniffle. She was crying. For him? Or because of him?  _ “Everyone is leaving us, and we’re on our own. I thought you understood that we…” _

Her gleaming eyes pierced his. And Canach felt an unknown weight on his stomach; a terrible void that ate him inside. He didn’t want to see her cry. He didn’t want her to see her like this ever again. Even less if it was his own fault.

_ “We won’t make it on our own,” _ she mumbled, trying to push him again. But her strength failed her, and her fists weakly pounded on Canach’s chest.  _ “We can’t. I can’t.” _

The impulse to hold her almost overrode all else, even the dragon’s rage. But before he could say anything, before he could do anything, Irene turned and went away, walking firmly to check on Giralein. Who she loved. And who she hated to see hurt.

And now, Canach realized with a cold panic settling on his stomach, he hated to see  _ her _ hurt.

He disappeared for hours into the jungle, cursing. At Giralein, at Mordremoth, at Anise and her blasted mission, the one who put him there in the first place. Beside her. But even if he growled and grunted and wanted to punch something, anything, to feel raw and angry and violent and mean, a fire inside him had been extinguished. A knot of hatred was loosing up. A bitterness was softened.

The implications were even more terrifying that the prospect of being jailed again.

It was still terrifying, as he saw her on her Priory uniform and those glasses that made her eyes gleam even more, as he got closer and closer, and Defiant Heart observed as he stopped right in front of her.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, a smirk insinuating under his moustache. “My quiet friend.”

A flash of purple luminescence lit Irene’s face, as Canach offered her a hand to shake.

“I’m a Magister of the Priory of Durmand,” she muttered, accepting his hand. “It’s my job to show up where I’m needed.”

They held, perhaps, a little bit longer than necessary.


	4. Fall

The season was changing. A chilly wind traveled from up the mountains, and Canach’s cape wasn’t enough to keep the cold at bay. He cursed under his breath, as he walked fast past another Lionsguard outpost. The only thought on his head was that he needed to head west.

The looks wasn’t the worst he had ever felt. Back at the Vigil’s keep, people entertained themselves throwing trash at him, as the Vigil soldiers pretended they couldn’t see anything. People hurled rotten fruit and vegetables, and insults. He was good enough of an actor to ignore them, to pretend he didn’t hear them, that it didn’t hurt. Because, back then, it didn’t.

“Halt!” a guard ordered, and Canach froze in place. A slight sigh rising as vapor from his mouth, and a hand on the hilt of his sword.

She was young, and small for a norn. But had a warhammer in the shape of a lion’s head hanging from her back.

“We got a word that blizzard is forming up in the mountains, citizen,” she said, turning around Canach to face him. “The pass to the Snowden Drifts is dangerous right now.”

“I’ll take my chances,” the sylvari murmured in turn, walking past her. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” she called again, after a pause. Canach froze in place once more. He knew that tone. “Aren’t you…?”

“Late,” he sneered at her, proceeding his march towards east. She didn’t try to stop him again.

It was the price he had to pay, Canach thought. Because redemption wasn’t forgiveness, and those who suffered his folly weren’t forced to forget. The world wasn’t forced to forgive.

As a mercenary, he had done just fine. But the looks, the murmurs, followed him everywhere he went. He wasn’t a criminal; not anymore. But his sins outweighed his triumphs in the eyes of the people he affected, in the eyes of the people whose lives he destroyed. Nobody knew of the suffering untold in the middle of the Heart of Thorns. Nobody knew about the fall of Caudecus. And those who knew, didn’t care. For them, his release of his ballot was a mistake at best, madness at worst.

It was a matter of time before he fell from grace again.

He chewed on such bitterness as he walked, and the wind got colder, crueler. It wasn’t hard to believe that the Dragons were rising once more, when the wind carried Jormag’s roaring. His cape, good enough for summer nights, felt like nothing on the coming winter’s blizzard. But there wasn’t a storm strong enough that could make him stay with the Lionsguard again. Or to delay his marching towards east any longer.

He needed warmth, that was for sure. But he needed a refuge, a sanctuary from the judgement of the world with even more urgency. And he knew, more or less, where to find it. More precisely, where to find  _ her _ .

Snow began to fall, and the wind carried it like tiny ice daggers towards his face. He couldn’t help it; he gasped as the cold flakes burned on his skin, rubbing his fingers, cold as dead now. Only the thought of spending the night there, at the mercy of the storm, made him press on into the mountains. He was used to survive on his own. He should be able to do it.

He wondered how she lived. How a Commander would spend her days when duty wasn’t on her mind. If there was a time, some tiny spec of time, where she glanced away from her books, thinking. About Maguuma, about the war, about the sacrifice. About-...

Canach grunted, and shook his head. He wasn’t a lovesick sapling to be pondering away about stuff like that. The pressing issue was  _ survive _ . And to survive, he had to keep on walking.

The falling snow made it hard to follow the road, but after a few minutes of searching, Canach was able to find it again, and keep pressing on. He had learned to be a master tracker, to outsmart prey and hunters, and nature itself. Back when the world hated him, and every shadow was a possible enemy, every sound was an ambush, every step in the night was a killer sent by Noll to get rid of him. Of the track of clues that led to him.

Not being a criminal now had its downsides. The biggest of them all was that he wasn’t able to bury his sword so deep into that little mole rat that the hilt would hit his chest. Even if most of the people he encountered, most of the Lionsguard, most of Kiel’s men thought he would not resist the temptation of some good, old fashioned revenge.

They were, of course, correct. And that was the reason he had steered clear from Pearl Islet. Noll would not be his downfall once again; he was advocated to commit new, unknown mistakes.

Like, apparently, taking off into an unknown road in the middle of a storm, with a blizzard looming above his head. Canach dared to lift his eyes from the road, and all he could see between half-closed lids was white. The seasons were changing, and the golden leaves lay dead, buried in a fresh coat of snow. Because the mountains didn’t care about seasons, and winter never ended in the Ice Dragon’s domain.

But he had to walk. Towards the east, where the norn city of Hoelbrak defied the storm. Beyond it, where snow melted when winter had come to pass, and spring blooms with the rising sun. Where, rumor had it, flowers seemed to bloom earlier around the tiny, cozy house of a sylvari crafter, who silently weaved her wonderful silk with enchanted runes, and protected the spirit shrines at the request of the local shamans. Norn said she was a great warrior, who disappeared each time the world needed to be saved, even if she avoided questions about her status on the Pact.

Canach smirked. It had to be her; if she wasn’t, he would beg Anise to take him back as her servant.

The wind suddenly lashed out in full-force, and Canach grunted again as he bent forward, trying to weather the storm, to keep on going. The snow became harder, harsher on his skin, icy specs that took away his warmth, and his breath. For a second, he remembered his first snow; trapped in a cage, contemplating the end of the world. The softness and the beauty, the delicate touches on the bars of his cell.

The world was harsher, and colder, now that he knew of tenderness. And with a frustrated growl, he lost his footing, tripping in the fresh coat of snow and ice, feeling the merciless ice like needles on his hands, and his legs as frozen water found its way through his clothing. He cursed, and cursed again, and cursed once more. Was he, perhaps, getting softer?

“Hail, stranger!” a voice called, and Canach hurried to get on his feet, sword drawn and shield up. A tall figure, undeterred by his aggressiveness, stood a bit down the road. “These are bad times for traveling!”

The figure got closer, revealing a horned helmet protecting the rough, but beautiful face of a norn warrior. Her skin was warm olive, and her muscular body towered over him without menace, but with mild amusement. Canach couldn’t help but notice that, in true norn fashion, her armor left her extremely exposed to the elements, and, once again, in true norn fashion, didn’t seem to be even slightly bothered by the freezing cold. In fact, as she got closer, he could feel her powerful warmth, defying the storm as all norn did.

“By Bear, a sylvari!” she exclaimed, peeking under Canach’s hood. “You should really come with me back to Podaga. The storm will only get worse from here!”

“Podaga?” Canach sneered, still on guard. The norn was, still, undeterred.

“It’s my home!” she explained, her thumb pointing to her chest. “The best hot springs around the Skradden Slopes are in Podaga Steading. You should give them a try!”

Slowly, still wary, Canach lowered his weapons, but keeping them at hand. The cold was starting to affect him, and he clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. There were not many options left for him, anyway. If he was headed into a trap, then so be it. Anything would be better than to be bested by a thorn-blasted storm.

“Very well,” he said, stowing his weapons. “Guide me towards that Steading you speak of.”

“Excellent!” the norn clapped her hands in thunderous glee. “Your kind always has some weird, but good stories to tell around the fire. We shall have a feast tonight!”

If there was one thing Canach wanted to do even less than to stay outside in the storm, was to tell a story of his own. The norn seemed not to know him, or if she did, didn’t care about his dark past. It was best to leave it that way, or so he thought. As they paced through the snow, she with incredible agility despite her size, she rambled on about the sudden storm.

“It’s the blasted Dragon, you see,” she explained, frowning. “Winters get longer, and all the rest gets shorter. We even had blooming trees here before. I can’t wait until someone breaks the tooth and we can kick all the Icebrood in the tail once and for all.”

Canach remained silent, deep in thoughts far away from the cold, and the Dragon. Thoughts of soft lips against his, and the sudden laugh of someone so used to sadness its lines carved her face. Thoughts of home, despite having none.

“There’s a storm coming,” the norn said, glancing up north. “A worse one, that is. And we’ll have to be ready. To hang on tight to what we love.”


	5. Winter, again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is the only chapter that has smut

Irene quickly closed the door behind her, keeping the storm out. She sighed, rubbing her gloved hands together, and caught her breath before heading towards the table in the middle of the room. The cold and the ice sometimes froze the door shut, and it wasn’t rare to be fighting against it as the wind roars and wolves howl.

She hung her heavy coat from a chair, melted snow dripping lazily on the wooden floor, and lit a magic orb to find the single candle and matches to light up the place as night creeped in. It was a lonely routine, but a routine nonetheless. And a homely one, at that. Being alone kept the rumors and sayings at bay.

However, a sudden gust of wind drowned the match, and Irene turned, hands up in conjuring form, ready to blast a mantra upon feeling a strange presence behind her. The open window let the storm in, and the heavy curtains fluttered inside as snowflakes twirled around a dark silhouette.

Irene jumped ahead, ready to defend herself even disarmed, but found that her hand, imbued in a magical glow, impacted against a shield. A shield made of vines and sunshine, in the shape of a crescent moon.

She gasped, stepping back as the natural luminescence of the sylvari illuminated his features. The broad, hooked nose, the thorns, the soft lips twisted in a smirk. And the eyes; those eyes of cold steel, burning into her with amusement.

“Canach!” she exclaimed, lowering her guard as Canach lowered his shield. “What are you doing here? How did you even find me?”

“I ignored the rumors and followed the silence, my very quiet friend,” he replied, stowing his shield and lowering his hood. “You aren’t hard to track at all.”

Irene huffed, annoyed at his obvious amusement, and walked towards the window to close it and keep the cold at bay. As she walked past him, she could feel his eyes on her, taking her in. And she tried her damndest to ignore it.

“Not a letter, not a message from you for months,” she complained, securing the windows and closing the heavy curtains. Darkness fell once again in the room, as she turned once more to face him. “I could’ve killed you.”

“Last time we saw each other, I told you I would surprise you,” replied, shrugging. “I was led to believe you’d appreciate it. I now see I was mistaken.”

He got the matches and lit the candle, as Irene pouted slightly in annoyance.

“Don’t try to-… How dare you-...” she huffed once again, rubbing her temple. “Just help me put more logs on the chimney, won’t you.”

They worked in silence, but even still Irene felt Canach's eyes on her each time she walked beside him. It put her, if only a little bit, on edge.

Last time they had seen each other, she had rescued him from the White Mantle's grasp. Last time they had finished Caudecus off, and Canach had earned his freedom. Last time they had kissed - a promise to find each other again. A promise Irene had been made before, one she was used to be broken.

But Canach was there, removing the logs, feeding the flames with careful indifference. She couldn't help but contemplate him, squatting beside the fire. He was there: he was real. And he had come to her in the end.

Canach glanced at her from over his shoulder, and Irene hurried towards the table.

"You must be hungry," she muttered, grabbing a small pot full of dolyak stew. "Please, have a seat."

Without a word, Canach sat on one of the four available chairs, frowning at the size, just big enough for his legs to hang loose. Irene saw as she put the pot in the grill above the fire, and removed its contents. She bit her lip; local craftsmen had built her furniture as a thank you for taking care of their Spirit Shrines, but had been just a bit off size.

"I haven't heard from you," she commented, smelling her cooking and evaluating her spices. "I imagine that's a sign you've been alright."

"Likewise," Canach replied, drinking from an almost empty waterskin. "Besides, no longer being tied on a leash controlled by a Shining Blade maniac is a wonderful change of pace."

Irene covered the pot with a metal lid, leaving it to heat. When she turned, Canach was still staring at her, cocking his head to the side.

"You're discreet - for a Pact Commander, that is," he commented, narrowing his eyes with slight amusement. "I suppose some things never truly change."

"You're not wrong," she murmured, moving to sit in front of her unexpected guest. "I enjoy my privacy."

It was only a half-truth. As she rubbed her fingers absent-mindely, she thought about her friends. About her siblings; Giralein and Gialinn had invited her multiple times to stay with them on The Grove, but she had declined every time, answered every letter with a no. After defeating Mordremoth - no. After helping return Caladbolg, after turning into a Knight of the Thorn, she thought she would finally feel good again.  _ Welcomed, _ even.

But memories she carried were too heavy, too painful. And the shadow looming over her silence, the scars of a nightmare that, even though had ended, kept a secret garden on the back of her mind, on the dark corners of her very being, made her feel forever like a stranger. Always an outsider, looking in from afar, yearning for a light that would never be fully hers again. Isolated from her siblings even on Mother's embrace.

She looked up at Canach, shy upon meeting his eyes. Another outsider, thinking too much about what he was lacking. Lonely enough to  _ understand _ .

In the jungle, she was surprised to see him understand. To see him care. But it made too much sense now, as they were both condemned, in self-imposed exile as they were too  _ inconvenient _ , too  _ complicated _ . In a tiny cabin in the middle of the storm, in a quiet moment in lives full of battle, and death, and pain.

She wanted to say something, and Canach seemed to want to talk as well. But the smell of soup was maddening as the stew boiled happily in the fire, and Canach grunted as he held his stomach.

Irene jumped from her chair, blushing in purple luminesce, and heading towards the pot.

"Mother's roots," she exclaimed, making sure it was evenly heated before walking to the cabinet, getting two bowls of different colors and designs. "How much since you last ate?"

"A couple of hours, tops," Canach muttered, eyeing the pot. Irene barely glanced towards him, incredulous, before returning to her task.

"I don't believe you," she stated, serving a generous amount in both bowls. Canach sighed.

"One or two… days," he grunted, crossing his arms. "Circumstances made me skip a couple settlements. Besides, I try to travel light."

"Light on your stomach?" Irene joked, placing one of the bowls in front of him. Canach sneered at her. "Come on. Eat."

She motioned towards the bowl, grabbing her spoon and having at it herself. After thoroughly examining his bowl -which had a repeated pattern of silhouetted wolves dancing under the moon-, Canach had a bite.

Then another, and another as he tried, and failed, to remain composed and polite. Before long he ate in an almost desperate manner, eating the pieces of soft, boiled meat whole and finishing up by drinking the soup straight from the bowl.

He sighed with satisfaction, leaning back on his chair but glancing from time to time towards the pot again. Irene, who had only eaten a few spoonfuls of soup, motioned towards it, signaling Canach to serve himself as he saw fit. Without waiting for further clarification, he indulged his hunger.

Irene observed with ardent curiosity, as Canach finished yet another bowl of stew and went for a third one. Still, however, she waited patiently, until her guest seemed a bit calmer and less desperate.

“So, Canach,” she asked, leaving her spoon beside her bowl - still half-full. “Where has your freedom taken you?”

After a few more spoonfuls of dolyak meat, the sylvari leaned back, sighing again. He moved his chair slightly to the side, turning a bit towards the fire to feel its heat more evenly, and took a while to think, frowning at the floorboards. Something told Irene he hadn’t been having such a great time as a free sylvari, after all.

“Did you know that human farmers hire sylvari workers to tend to their seeds?” he commented, making Irene rise a brow. “They’ve been led to believe we can speed up the harvesting process, convince the trees to grow faster.”

Irene blinked. One thing was to grow vines and houses, and another one entirely was to speed up the natural passage of time, the schedules of blooming and the ripening of the fruit. Canach smirked.

“They pay one gold per seed, you know?” he explained. Irene gasped.

“You were conning them!” she explained, attempting -and failing- to look appalled. Canach’s smirk widened.

“It’s their fault to think any sylvari can just up and convince an anemic apple tree to get better,” he reasoned, shrugging. “I left before harvesting season, so they didn’t get the idea to accuse me of something.”

“You told me you’d rather stay out of trouble, lest you ended up working with us again,” Irene giggled, unable to stop herself. Canach narrowed his eyes.

“Perhaps I lied.”

The intensity of his gaze took the breath out of Irene, and as if them both felt the tension between them at the same time, they looked away. Irene cradled the bowl of stew between her hands, suddenly not hungry anymore. She wondered if Canach was as flustered as her, but didn’t feel brave enough to check.

“In any case,” he finally said, dispelling the tension. “I attempted fishing in Divinity’s Reach, back at Claypool Village. As it turns out, I don’t really enjoy it. Mostly because I’m quite bad at it.”

Irene looked back at him, frowning in discontempt, and tried to stop herself from laughing. The mental image of Canach, chaotic and messy, quick to anger and quicker to strike, patiently waiting for fish to bite his bait, was simply too much for her.

“I quit, however, fairly quickly,” he grunted, crossing his arms with a grimace. “Specifically, the third time I broke a line because it got stuck under some rocks. It was humiliating. Salmons were jumping all around me, mocking me.”

Unable to keep it down for any longer, Irene giggled, covering her mouth when Canach threw her an annoyed glance. She smiled as an apology, but he looked away once more, frowning towards the floor. He, indeed, seemed a bit flustered. Irene tried not to think about it.

“So, fishing it’s not your thing,” she said, clearing her throat. “Any other activity you deemed worthy of your time?”

“Ah, well, we have some things in common,  _ Commander _ ,” Canach explained, leaning back on his seat, forgetting his past annoyance to throw her a crooked smile. “We’re both pretty good at kicking ass, as it turns out. So I escorted some caravans in Gendarran Fields. The pay was good.”

Irene cocked her head, intrigued, but not surprised. Once a mercenary, forever a mercenary, or so she thought.

“You are good at it, indeed,” she commented, briefly nodding. “But then, why did you leave?”

A shadow fell on Canach’s face, and suddenly the room grew colder. Irene’s smile slowly wittered.

“A Lionsguard recognized me,” he bluntly stated, staring at the fire. “I left the next day.”

Irene tried to say something, but nothing seemed right. Even if she knew about his bravery and kindness, the fact was that Canach was a convicted criminal, and dangerous at that. She wanted to think she couldn’t even begin to imagine how he felt, but the fact was that she did. The glances, the murmurs, the suspicion. Like waiting for her to fall into darkness. Irene made a move to hold Canach’s hand, resting on the table, but her courage failed her, and she resorted to stand up and serve him more food.

“What about you, my quiet friend?” Canach suddenly wondered. Irene, distracted contemplating the logs burn, turned to look at him. “What brings you to this Mother’s forsaken place?”

“Well,” she murmured, rubbing her fingers under the table. “As I said, I enjoy my privacy, and wanted to lay low for a while. Since I’m technically no longer part of the Pact, I don’t have much to do anymore between missions. So I’ll just been… sewing, I suppose.”

She waved her hand towards the roof, where fine silk and gossamer thread hung loosely. Irene kept her craft away from the floor from when she had to catsit Sinéad’s cats, or when she had to feed Mawdrey, as she tended to drool when in the presence of damask thread. Canach frowned, at parts surprised, and at parts amused. The room smelled of fine spices, and fresh vegetables to cook.

“I suppose there isn’t much fighting these days, then,” he commented. Irene shrugged slightly.

“I only protect the Spirit’s Shrines around here. The shamans know me, and keep my secret,” she explained. “I don’t think I’ve even used Caladbolg in a while. It’s better to keep it protected, out of sight.”

Upon mention of the blessed thorn, Canach suddenly stiffened, looking down at the floorboards once more. He struggled, breathing in and huffing a few times, before finally asking.

“May I see it?”

“See what?” she asked in turn, blinking.

“Caladbolg.”

Irene’s breathing hinged, and she rubbed her fingers again, nervous.

“It’s not the thorn persay,” she mumbled. “Giralein holds it now. I only carry part of its essence.”

Canach finally looked up at her, intensely.

“Who cares?” he softly said.

Irene held his gaze for a second, before sighing and getting up.

“Very well. Stay here.”

She used one of her chairs to reach the highest cabinet, above the pots and pans. A lock protected it from prying eyes - not a physical, however, for she knew how to engrave magic runes into the wood itself. She opened the cabinet with a soft touch in the right spot, and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the beautiful shield, butterflies flying around it despite being hidden away for so long. Carefully, she grabbed it, getting down from the chair and walking towards Canach with it.

His eyes lit up upon laying them on Caladbolg Astera, and he stood up to meet Irene. He examined it carefully, in silent concentration, if a bit overwhelmed.

“Can I…?” he mumbled, raising his arms. Irene, after some hesitation, nodded, and held it up for him to take it.

Canach grabbed it from Irene’s arms, softly brushing their hands as he held it with extreme care, with a delicate demeanor that left the younger sylvari breathless. He touched it with eager fingers, careful not to break off any leave, or to disturb the playful butterflies as he satiated his curiosity.

Irene realized he had never seen him like this. Endlessly fascinated with every facet of the shield, trying to absorb everything he saw, every detail on its perfect surface, as it illuminated softly from within. He seemed so young, untainted by the war, and the world. Untouched by evil.

Something moved inside of her. Her breathing hinged when Canach caressed the soft bark softly, as one would the petals of a rare flower, or the skin of a lover. Her eagerness, her yearning, caught her off guard for once, and she felt herself blushing, and drunk in silent contemplation of something rare and beautiful.

“Never thought I would see it with my own eyes,” Canach mumbled, distracted. “Neither that I would hold it.”

For it was a gift of love and devotion, from the Blessed Mother for her favored children. And just like that, like awakening from a dream, Canach’s wonder and curiosity vanished, replaced by bitterness.

“From the Pale Tree, to her heroes,” he snarled, offering her the shield back. “It only makes sense I’ll never get to hold it.”

Irene took the shield, but held Canach’s hands in place in an impulse.

“ _ Do not fear difficulty, _ ” she murmured. Canach frowned. “ _ Hard ground makes stronger roots _ .”

He seemed slightly annoyed, as much as Irene was surprised to have quoted Ventari out of the sudden. She hurried to explain.

“You did your best,” she said, firmly this time. “And you failed. But you’ve learned from it, and will not commit the same mistakes again. I know it-... I’ve seen it. You’re more heroic than you think, and you should start to believe that.”

_ And so should I _ , Irene thought to herself. Believe she wasn’t a being of darkness, but someone who yearned for light and love, and understanding. And there wasn’t anything wrong with that.

They stared down at each other, her eyes, pleading; his, somber, full of doubt. But suddenly, in an impulse, he leaned in from above the shield, giving Irene a soft kiss on her lips.

After a pause, she left the shield on the table, jumping on his arms and kissing him back.

It was just as she remembered. Or even better, for her memories never carried Canach’s warmth, the softness of his lips, the brush of his facial hair, the eagerness of his hands. She held on to his neck as the room felt unstable, like a rocking boat, when he pressed his hands on the small of her back, barely caresing her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. The movement ignited an unknown fire inside of Irene, who softly gasped as the kiss deepened.

Canach’s hands, coarse and used to battle and violence, were soft on her body, as he caressed her back and went up to her face, discovering every line sadness had left on her, massaging them away. Irene remembered how he held Caladbolg, his curiosity and silent devotion, and the yearning and eagerness returned to her in waves, threatening to drown her modesty in a haze of warmth and pleasure.

However, the smell of overcooked dolyak made her jump away from Canach’s arms. He grunted in protest, but she motioned towards him to wait as she removed the pot from the fire with an oven mitt. She couldn't help but smile as she stored the soup and the mitt, feeling at all times Canach’s angry gaze fixed on her. A part of her couldn’t believe it was true. Another part just wanted to return to his arms. And for once, she obeyed the latter.

She moved a chair beside Canach’s, and patted it so he would sit in front of the fire with her. Without a protest he did as told, only to be greeted with another, more tender kiss.

The night might as well be endless. Irene could’ve swear that, as long as they kept kissing, time wouldn’t pass, and dawn would never reach them. They could’ve just lay roots in there, with Caladbolg as their witness, and the end of the world might just find them still kissing, roughly and needily now, softly and tenderly afterwards.

Canach, however, seemed restless. Each time they separated, Irene gave him a tiny peck as a parting gift, and he would fall once again, unable to resist her call. Until, when Irene leaned in to give him another kiss, he put a finger on her lips, stopping her from luring him once more.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your hospitality,” he said, voice hoarse and deep, full of desire. Irene swallowed hard. “But, are you going to keep me sitting here all night? I would appreciate something softer; I’ve been walking for weeks to get here.”

Irene giggled nervously, as they both stared deeply into each other’s eyes. She then sighed, getting up and storing Caladbolg on its cabinet once again, and covering the fire with ashes to preserve the heat during the night. As the light dimmed and she could see Canach’s luminescence getting stronger, Irene grabbed the candle from the table, and after a brief hesitation, she also grabbed Canach’s hand, softly pulling so he would follow.

She bit her lip as she opened the only other door aside from the entrance, leading Canach in and closing up behind them. The room was mostly empty; only a norn-sized bed occupied almost all the space from wall to wall. Irene felt Canach’s incredulous stare, as she turned and, biting her lip, pointed towards the bed with a movement of her head, looking down.

“Here you’ll be very comfortable, I believe,” she mumbled. The light of the only candle made the shadows around even deeper, both in an island of warmth and color, isolated from the rest of the world.

And suddenly, Canach blew the candle off.

In the complete darkness of the Shiverpeaks, the purple and green patterns of their skin shone brighter than ever, leading the way to another kiss. Canach, however, was more demanding, hungrier as he demanded every last breath from Irene, whose eyes fluttered shut as she dropped the candle to the ground. Her hands buried on Canach’s back, sighing once again as his hands pressed her up against him, holding her hips in a way that suggested that he wanted more - so much more.

Shy, but determined, Irene suddenly left his lips, following the pattern of Canach’s luminescence down to his neck, giving soft kisses and nibbles. Canach grunted softly, holding on to her head and giving her more room to explore. She suddenly felt powerful and adventurous, especially when, with an especially wet kiss on the base of his neck, she got to hear another, deeper grunt from Canach’s throat.

Not one to be upstaged, however, Canach started to move his hands; firmly caressing her arms at first, moving to her torso after. Irene breathed in hard, feeling Canach’s hands running up and down, touching the small mounds of her chest in the process. An unbearable warmth began to take her over, and her sigh became a soft moan. She could only imagine where he would want to touch her next, and the perspective made her shiver in anticipation.

After a long debate with himself, Canach moved his hands inside of Irene’s warm clothes, softly caressing her tiny breasts as their foreheads touched. Irene trembled and moaned once again, trying to process it all, to take it all in at once. She found that she was unable to, overwhelmed to have him, of all people, making her feel so unbelievably good.

She heard Canach’s breathy laugh, at which she peeked between her lids with curiosity.

“What is it?” she mumbled, surprised about how sleepy and breathless she sounded. Canach shook his head.

“People might take this the wrong way,” he explained, still touching her. “As if I’m merely seducing a young sylvari to take advantage of her.”

She giggled.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she mumbled, kissing him once again. “People know who took you down and put you in a cage, don’t they?”

Canach frowned, not at all amused at the perspective. But instead of the verbal sparring Irene was waiting, he resorted to grab her in his arms, lifting her off the ground despite her laughy protests.

He dropped her on the bed, making her bounce before looming over her, in his eyes a deep desire that fed on Irene’s. She couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed; not when he was so close, looking at her like that.

He kissed her briefly, before attempting to lift her simple merchant clothing, when Irene suddenly opened her eyes and grabbed his arms. She was surprised to feel him stop pulling, leaning back and looking at her, asking for an explanation.

“I’m… I have… “ she mumbled, sitting up in front of him. “Let me do it.”

She slowly removed her garments, looking away from Canach as he did. Because her torso was full of scars and dents, as if a shark had chewed on her and spit her out. Thorn whip and fern hound bite scars plagued her whole body, and she suddenly felt like crying, overwhelmed by conflicting desires. She would understand if it was too much to bear; too much to see her like she was, damaged and broken, without the glamors and covering spells she used while on duty.

But Canach stared at her intently, and didn’t say a word, neither he backed down. Instead, he removed his own clothing, and Irene gasped upon seeing him do so. For his body was as full of scars as his arms, when he showed her the damage asura had done to him. The burning extended in geometrical patterns all the way to his back, where cruel puncture scars reminded Irene of the plugs they had put on the young Secondborn’s spines, using them as batteries by plugging into where they had been connected to their Mother.

She slowly, deliberately put a hand on his chest, feeling his hardened skin, and his ravaged breathing. His eyes, still, fixed on her.

“Is this fine?” he asked. Breathless, she nodded.

Their kiss tasted different this time. Less like a new adventure, more like a home to seek refuge on. The feeling of their naked skin was maddening, and Irene breathed in deep Canach’s smell, like a grassy meadow in the middle of the summer. She felt, surprisingly, safe beneath him, as it was his turn to kiss her neck, and follow her scars in a broken trail to her chest, and bellow it, always descending in a neverending trail of licks and bites.

She didn’t know what was he doing, not even when he pulled her cloth pants down, leaving her naked in a gesture that could’ve been erotic, but felt strangely loving, and tender. At least, until she felt a kiss right on top of her core, which made her yelp in surprise.

Canach eyed her from below, and Irene simply blinked and nodded quickly as he went back to task. With experienced fingers he opened up her folds, licking his lips before giving her a lick instead, hungrily lapping at her.

Irene gasped, and trembled, and closed her eyes and held for dear life on to her bedding, because her world was a rocking boat now and Canach was the sea below, throwing her off balance. She could recall her studies; back at the Priory, where they had anatomy books that she read, curiously, trying to find answers to the questions she hadn’t formulated yet. She remembered a paragraph about “Mother’s Gifts” to her children; gifts that allowed them to feel and give pleasure if so they desired, just as humans could. But nothing prepared her for the raw feeling of Canach licking between her legs, leaving her on edge before slowing down to a crawl, making her lose her mind. She was born ready to fight dragons, and to save the world. But she was still a novice in the intricacies of love.

A need arised inside of Irene. A need of something she didn’t, couldn’t know, but that she craved with all her heart. Something to leave her satisfied; feeling contempt, and full. As she held on to Canach’s head, she pumped up with her hips and felt him holding her in place, with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

Something broke. She gasped, and arched her back, trembling in the air as Canach, still, held her still, drinking her orgasm to completion. Unable to speak, she could only pant as the contact became even more raw, almost painful in its intensity, and the only thing in her clouded mind was the feeling of abandon, of letting go at last. Her eyes tightly shut, suddenly opened up in tears, in time to look down at Canach getting up, cleaning his mouth like a naughty boy who ate too much, but still wants more.

“You do hold on to your Soundless fame, don’t you?” he commented, laying down on top of her. She softly moaned upon feeling something hard, and warm, brushing against her tight. “Why don’t we give Jormag something to dream about?”

She couldn’t answer, lost in the silent contemplation of Canach’s thorns, illuminating at once. In a way, she was still bewildered, unable to believe that this was even happening. That Canach was there, naked on top of her, so much more real than the sterile, sanitized diagrams that she remembered from the Priory books on the topic. So warm, and so pleasurable.

And so, Irene touched him. Starting with his face, caressing his cheeks and inspecting his thorns with curiosity. He raised a thorny brow when she went down, touching his neck, and then his back. She knew he was strong; they had fought before. But even if he was rather skinny, she could feel the power beneath his skin, that same power he used to fight against her, and then beside her. She even followed the uneven pattern of his back, making him jump slightly when she kept going down, inspecting his butt with a soft grab. Irene saw the luminescence on his face lit up suddenly, and smiled.

Then her hands got even bolder, and she bit her lip as she turned around his hips, reaching to grab his dick with curiosity. Canach inhaled sharply, frowning as he let her touch, his hips rocking softly forward when she glided her fingers on the tip.

So he did his own inspecting, freeing one of his hands to search between her folds again, making her sigh in pleasure as he found her entrance, and pushed inside. It was another new sensation that made her curious at first, until he moved his fingers in such a way that made her shiver once more.

However, he stopped her all of the sudden, grabbing her arm carefully, but firmly. Irene opened her eyes, not sure when she had closed them, and threw him a questioning look.

“Feels good,” he mumbled, and Irene felt a lash of desire upon hearing him so breathless. “But I’d rather finish inside of you.”

Irene blushed even deeper upon hearing him, and felt that her face could’ve lit up the whole of Astorea Village.

“Yes,” she murmured, nodding. “That sounds lovely.”

Canach seemed troubled as well, staring deeply into her eyes as his breathing hinged, and so did his luminescence.

“Very well,” he said, leaning back to spread her legs. Irene looked away, biting her lip, a bit ashamed of it all.

But when she felt him softly entering, so warm and firm, she opened her mouth in a silent “o”, holding tight on Canach’s back. He stopped, staring at her with a worried frown on his forehead, until Irene nodded, fast and enthusiastically.

He pumped slowly, deliberately, grunting each time as Irene gasped and felt, suddenly, alive, adventurous. She locked her legs behind Canach’s lower back, and felt his hiss when, suddenly, he could reach even deeper inside of her. It was taking all of him to stop himself from pumping until he came, but the slow rhythm proved too much for Irene as well; the constant, soft rubbing made her moan, soft at first, but louder each time.

Each pump was different, and ignited spots she couldn’t even begin to suspect they could be ignited in its wake. Canach was a patient teacher, as he slowed down to kiss her, or picked up the pace, to bring her to the edge and feel her tightening around him.

Suddenly, in a deep pump, Irene squealed “There!” in delight, and Canach, the renegade sylvari who followed no command, for once obeyed without question, repeating his movements only to make her melt beneath him.

If he kept going like that, hitting just there, in a cadence of burning velvet, Irene thought that maybe, just maybe, she could ride the wave of pleasure she felt growing inside of her, slowly but surely, a promise that seemed, with each pump, more attainable, more real.

With another grunt, Canach picked up the pace, and Irene got suddenly quiet. It was too much to bear, and she buried her short nails on Canach’s back, meeting him in the air with silent, desperate moans that died on her throat, unable to leave her pleading lips. Only at the very end, in the last, desperate trembles, she let out a soft whimper, clenching up inside, tense like a rubber band about to break.

And under his breath, Canach cursed, pressing his forehead on her shoulder and holding on to the bedding on his last pumps, allowing Irene’s warmth to drive him mad for a glorious second. His shoulders tensed up -she could feel them beneath her fingers-, and he got up for a last moan right on her lips; an invitation too tempting to reject.

They kissed as Canach came, weakened, sloppy, clumsy.

He pulled out softly, laying down with a depleted sigh, and looking up at Irene, who simply entertained herself in contemplating him, naked and relaxed. A rare sight, the most valuable of gifts. For there was no shadow looming over him, nor bitterness, or hatred.

The morning light would bring up its own problems and challenges. But for one night, only one night, they were, truly and completely, free.


End file.
